Way atop a Sycamore tree
a black birds call reiterates
his three syllable poetry.
Caw! Caw! Caw! The feathered poet
crowed. Caw! Caw! Caw! Came the verse
high up on the sycamore tree.
Caw! Caw! Caw! He vociferates
once more. His alliteration
and end rhymes, stressed in words of three.
Not to be outdone I sounded
my loud, lame three-word rendition.
Then from his branch he looked at me
And burst out with a loud guffaw
Caw! Caw! Caw! He boomed Caw! Caw! Caw!

Albert Ahearn

58.

A Chilly Vision

I gazed through an iced crystal pane
Looking at three winter backdrops:
A tree is struggling under snow
Its maple branches drooping low.
Two small flowerbeds are asleep
beneath very deep, white blankets.
As I gazed, I became entranced;
All of the snow had disappeared
Revealing the presence of spring-
Tiny, green protuberances
appeared from numerous branches;
Rudimentary daffodils
and tulips rouse from their slumber.
Then I blinked twice and all was gone;
except my yearning thoughts of spring.

Albert Ahearn

59.

A Mondo Gory Poem

Faces of Gore (1999) is a mondo shockumentary video that depicts graphic footage of bloody, mangled bodies which guides viewers through explicit scenes depicting a variety of ways to die and violent acts. I wanted to try my hand at Mondo genre poetry. I promise you Im not a nut case. Im just a highly imaginative poet.

An ominous cloud lingers in my head
Portending pernicious consequences.
My sixth sense informs me what lays ahead
Foretelling dire events in sequences:
At first, a flash that's followed by thunder.
But its not what the mind is telling me.
A cloudless sky, than smoke, and no wonder
A bomb tore asunder all that I see.
The blood, ash and bone, dismembered bodies
All littered the site once a theater.
The mayhem and carnage that I foresee
Was the work of a lone perpetrator.
A marquee lying that stood heretofore
Reads: Coming attraction, Faces of gore

Albert Ahearn

60.

A Railroad Town

The diesel locomotive wailed
Like a sick bull as it approached
The intersection; five bellows.
The dreaded traffic light turned red
And all of us just sat waiting
For this snail-like, slow-moving
Freight train to pass, while the traffic
was backing up to infinity.
Life becomes a standstill in time:
If your appendix burst, pray to god;
If you're in labor, tough titty;
If late for work, you curse and swear!
So you wait and count the freight cars...
One hundred one one hundred two

Onward west they roll
Swaying, screeching, click-clanking
Along rusty tracks.

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statementPoems By Poet Albert Ahearn